SLAVE TO TWO MASTERS - 5

PART V

THE SLAVE TRAINING INSTITUTE

My little rebellions occurred when I was in no condition to physically oppose my situation. They usually erupted during a prolonged course of being left in isolation. In my head, I would challenge my Two Masters' right to imprison me, while my body, in response, expressed my revolt by struggling against the restraints in which I had been left, whether they were leather, rubber, steel, rope, or some combination. During such rages, especially after I ejaculated (chastity devices are not always totally effective), I often felt as though I had convinced myself, finally, that I would end my relationship with them.

Yet, over time, regardless of how strongly I expressed my temporary opposition, I learned that even if that state of mind lasted for several hours, eventually it was always overridden by my return to horniness. It was my acceptance of their control that was the key to being the real slave they wanted. As I struggled (literally) with that aspect, weeks turned into months while I kept going back for more: their desire for maximum bondage persisted, as did mine, at least during periods while I still had free will to choose otherwise. My life became increasingly centered on being "with them," under their control as much as possible, or following their instructions when I was not in their physical custody. Lengthy stretches of solitude in their basement, uncomfortable chastity belts, and custom-fitted restraints became routine, as the extent of service and control they required continued to advance.

My meetings with them took on more of a ritualistic tone, and I began to feel increasingly like an object, a thing to be controlled, rather than a person in a sexual relationship involving three people. Just as I was becoming more of a faceless, sightless, bound, leather- or rubber-encased nonentity to my Two Masters (which I assumed was what they wanted), to me they were becoming distant, all-powerful ciphers devoid of personality, who would bind me up, use me, leave me, and then decide based on their whim when I would be released. While they never jeopardized my physical health, the emotional separateness caused by their almost exclusively role-oriented behavior toward me produced strong conflicts in my thoughts, especially as I had so much time when I could do nothing but think. I realized that other bondage addicts would jump at the chance for a slave relationship with my Two Masters, but my emotions were mixed, and I often felt confused. I would look back on my life before meeting them and think about my former naivete and relative innocence.

To get on with it, describing my thoughts about the relationship here in the story provides a context for what came next. It was a Friday afternoon, and I had arranged for more time off from work, to have yet another week free (to not be free), which Bob and Jim had instructed. (Luckily, my job provided great benefits, and I still had vacation time to use.) I had not seen my Masters for almost 2 weeks (by their design but without explanation) and was looking forward to whatever they had in mind. The chastity device (steel waist belt and penis tube under a shield) I had worn for that time was one they had ordered specifically for me, and to which I had become accustomed for weeklong separations from them.

After almost 2 weeks, my dick had finally given up on trying to stand up and become erect, and the device seemed less uncomfortable than when I had to wear it sporadically for shorter periods. Bob and Jim no longer sent me self-bondage instructions, but sometimes I would get into the rubber sack they gave me to sleep in and think about that night months ago when Mike had entered my apartment. I still hadn't seen him again. I looked for him every day at the gym, but he was never there. I fantasized about his pouty lips, his pretty cock, his tight, muscular body, and the time we had spent together so many weeks ago. I could still visualize the expression on his beautiful face, looking down on me, and remember my feelings when we fucked so urgently. In my imagination, I cupped my hands over his biceps to feel their hardness while I sucked the salty saliva from his tongue as we kissed. I walked from work to the gym and then home later on with Mike constantly in my thoughts.

When I arrived at my apartment, logged onto my e-mail, and read the message, my dick ignored its confinement and tried to get hard. I pushed my knees together in an effort to subdue the pain as I reread the instructions:

slave- We've noticed ur rebelliousness & fits of rage not abating. Think u need to work on deciding u have no alternative but to accept ur Masters' will, which you need to do before We resolve whether to acquire u as our fulltime slave. We're sending u to a slave training institute at an isolated location. It's very complete, with full-time Masters, cells, cages, chastity devices, hoods, gags, iron masks, sling, swing, whipping post, stocks, shackles, floating table, bondage bed, sleepsacks, straitjackets, head cage, arm binders, steel bondage chair, & more. All very, VERY real. Ur minimum "sentence" is 8 days. During that period u will be treated as a slave at all times. That means NO choices, NO options, NO limits (except safe sex), NO early release program, NO rights, NO prerogatives, NO "safe words", NO privileges and NO WAY OUT. The facility is run like a brig, but with extended heavy restraint, extreme discipline, & sex requiring ur service at any time during ur incarceration.

ur orders to prepare- light food & minimal fluids tonite. buzz head w/ #2 clipper. shave neck-toe (including as much of crotch as u can get to). flush ur slavehole completely clean. empty bladder. insert ur largest plug & lock rear shield in place. wear only ur leather jeans & jacket, no shirt, ur high boots laced up tight over the pant legs, & ur unlined black leather gloves. nothing in ur pockets except key to rear shield. leave ur place at 8pm & walk quick pace to lot off alley behind old Riker's market. stand still at attention & wait. special arrangements for u, so don't disappoint Us, boy.

It was a deserted, unlit area. The back parking lot was empty except for an abandoned wreck. The market had closed months ago and its receiving area was dark. No one was around. My shaved armpits stung as they released nervous sweat that trickled down my denuded, naked skin under the leather jacket. The night air was cool and made the stubble on my head prickle. The skin-tight, leather gloves were damp with sweat. In spite of the large butt plug, my cock remained shrunken within the cold steel tube. I waited anxiously as the time passed and darkness moved in. I knew they wanted me to be afraid, but that awareness didn't keep me from actually experiencing fear. It was a creepy, solitary place. I stood stiffly, without moving, as instructed, but felt humiliated and forgotten. I had assumed I wasn't allowed to wear socks, and my feet were slick, hot and sweaty, perspiring profusely within the leather boots, which hugged my lower legs. Parts of my body were cold, yet coated with sweat. I won't belabor the doubts that invaded my thoughts.

I guessed about an hour passed before a large, unfamiliar, dark-windowed van pulled into the parking lot and stopped in front of me. A side-mounted sliding door opened and a big, bear-like tattooed man stepped down. He had a shaved head and dark goatee, wore a leather vest and chaps over jeans, and looked like a biker. I had never seen him before, and my reaction must have shown on my face.

"Don't look so worried. We know your Masters, bondage pig. Inside, quick, in a kneeling position behind the passenger seat."

I was hesitant but speechless. Before I knew it, he grabbed my arm and guided me up into the van. As I kneeled down inside, I gasped involuntarily. There was a slim, well-built masculine form, mummified tightly in duct tape from head to toe and encircled by black strips that bound the cocoon to a long, narrow plank, like a backboard for emergency rescues. The board was on an incline, with its head resting on a large backpack. In the darkness in the back, next to the silver-encased, closely joined feet of the figure, I could see an empty wire cage. As the door closed and the tattooed man moved up beside me, someone from the driver's seat spoke to me: "Keep your head down and eyes on the floor." I got a glimpse of the profile of an athletic head topped by a brush of black hair.

I bowed my head and tried to stare at the floor, but my eyes were drawn to the rigidly held captive. The restraint was so faultless and complete that it looked clinical. I wondered who it was under the tape and whether he was enjoying his predicament. Yellow tubing extended up his body from under the taped-over bulge at his crotch to his mouth area, where the tubing disappeared into his tightly wrapped jaw. My cock attempted to expand in reaction to my speculation: Was he here voluntarily, happily recycling his own piss while he lay sealed, wrapped, and fastened for transport? Or, was he enduring all this because he was obeying some Master's orders? I couldn't decide which prospect excited me most. I saw his toes, all joined into one unit by the tape, wiggle slightly, and I thought I heard a loud swallow.

My engrossment came to an abrupt end. The tattooed man handed me an article of rubber that I recognized immediately and said, "Pull it over your head into place, boy." It was a one-piece combination hood/gag that belonged to Jim and Bob. The first time they had me in it I had a slight anxiety attack and after that had never liked it much, and they knew it. Now, I stretched it over my head and drew the face down into place as I pushed the gag into my mouth. With no nose or eyeholes, the only way to breathe was through a narrow channel in the gag. I felt my new captor pulling the zipper closed as the rubber stretched tighter across my face and squeezed my head. Next, I was told to hold my head upright, and I felt a second hood going on over my head. I became panicky and used my hands to search for the mouth opening in the outer hood as I felt it close and tighten.

"That's right, boy, make sure the openings line up," the voice said matter-of-factly. I sensed laces being tied as the constriction increased, but I had no trouble breathing if I remembered not to use my nose. In conjunction with the second hood, a collar was buckled snugly around my neck. Then I sensed a rigid object over the collar, my hands were moved up to my chest, and cuffs were fastened around my wrists. I soon realized I was in a rigid device that encircled my neck and wrists and forced my arms and hands together into a fixed praying position. My captor then guided me in a sitting position into what I assumed was the wire cage I had glimpsed. He fastened another rigid restraint around my boots at ankle level and pushed on it to signal that I was to bend my knees to draw my legs up further. After that I sat still and waited, but there were no further ministrations. The van began to move, and I realized the cage had been closed. Apparently, I was packaged for transport.

The drive to the facility proceeded nonstop, without interruption, for a period that was difficult to gauge, but I would say was at least two hours. The unyielding cage and rigid irons allowed little movement, and the position became more uncomfortable as time passed, but I concentrated on staying still and breathing through the small opening in the gag. My hearing became hyperactive in its efforts to understand sounds that penetrated the dark constriction of the two hoods. At one point, I detected a short burst of angry bellowing and assumed it came from the duct-taped mummy. After that, I thought I heard the loud, continuous tearing noises that tape makes when it is pulled off the roll. My cock swelled uncomfortably within the metal cylinder at the thought that more binding was being applied to the helpless mummy.

When the van stopped, I heard doors: opening, closing, opening. There were sounds of movements, more closing of doors, and then silence. Time advanced, and I sensed I was alone. Apparently they were dealing with the mummy first. I waited anxiously, but for what I didn't know. Gingerly, I raised my feet to push forward, and I felt through my boots that the cage door was still closed. I shifted around as best I could to ease the pressure on my butt and asshole, which was sore and burning from sitting on the large plug. The cage had the perfect dimensions to enclose me in my current position, but there was no room to change posture. I leaned my head to one side to rest it against the wire.

I was startled from my semi-sleep when I heard the van door opening. Finally, I was being tended to. The ankle iron was removed, but I remained hooded and yoked at the neck and wrists, as I was guided from the van. The two hoods, leather clothes and boots dulled my senses to the point that I couldn't discern any particulars of my whereabouts. I walked on level ground for a short distance, then, with guidance, down a set of steps that could have been concrete. Hands on my shoulders pushed me down onto the floor in a kneeling position. The rigid device was removed, my hands were cuffed behind me, and the hoods were taken off. I squinted to adjust to the light. The now familiar tattooed biker was standing over me. His jeans were open at the fly, and his large, hairy genitals hung in my face.

"Wash my balls with your tongue, slave."

My mouth was dry. I had to work hard to try to coat his hairy scrotum with enough saliva to allow my tongue to lick. There was a strong taste.

While I slavered, he spoke: "We've heard you're quite a bondage pig, so your slave name here will be 'oinker.' We understand your Masters have already told you about the purpose of your incarceration. You'll demonstrate total compliance and obedience and will have no say in what happens to you. Unless we ask for your input, you are to remain silent at all times. You're to address both my partner and I as 'Sir.' Understand, oinker?" So, I thought, even here, wherever this was, I was to have two Masters.

I kept my face buried in his crotch while I responded, "Yes, Sir."

He grabbed my chin, pulled me off his balls, and pointed my face in the direction of a young, broad, very muscular man, presumably his partner, the one who had driven the van. He was about 20 feet from us, across the room, and leaning over a table on which the mummy from the van lay still.

"Work on my cock now, oinker."

I took his flaccid cock in my mouth and did my best to stimulate it. Wide and fleshy, it slowly hardened as I mustered more saliva to lubricate it. Soon, he gripped my head between his hands and fucked my face. His cock was very large when fully erect, and I intermittently gagged and choked. He made no comment.

After he was finished using my mouth, I was ordered to stand. He removed the handcuffs and instructed me to take off my gloves, boots, jacket and jeans, and then to put my boots on again, with special emphasis on lacing them tightly over my calves. He had me put the gloves back on also, cuffed my hands behind me again, and then said, "You're to wear the boots and gloves at all times, unless we tell you otherwise."

Next, he took me through a door at the end of the room opposite the area where his partner stood over the mummy. In an outer room, an open door showed a small bathroom. "Go in there and piss, oinker." He watched as I sat low on the toilet. Urine splattered in multiple streams out of the chastity tube piss opening, as though my dick was partially obstructed (probably with dried precum). When I was through, he led me back into the large room, and then across it to an open door behind the table where his partner was working on the mummy. He unlocked my handcuffs, located a leather straitjacket on one of the shelves, and proceeded to enclose me in it. Unlike the black leather one Bob and Jim had, this straitjacket was made of very thick canvas and brown leather that gave it an institutional look. It felt strong, secure, totally escape-proof, and very restrictive. I looked through the open door and saw a narrow hallway.

As my custodian finished with the fastenings on the jacket, his partner spoke. "He's being more cooperative now. Whatever Ed gave him is finally having an effect, or maybe he's just exhausted."

My keeper turned me around to further adjust belts on the straitjacket, and I had a clear view of the mummy. The silver casement was sliced and separated at the midline at the level of the chest. The opening revealed what I had suspected. Visible inside the cocoon was a tight, muscular, male torso, crisscrossed by ropes, under which the skin was smooth and coated with sweat. Plastic wrap had been used beneath the tape. I was close enough to sense an odor of perspiration emanating from the opening. Rope encircled the wrists and elbows to fasten them to the body at each side. A clamped catheter tube hung free from the penis. The mummy's head was still wrapped and a disconnected tube protruded at the mouth area. One arm was almost totally uncovered. A nervous feeling developed in the pit of my stomach as I distinguished a prominent tattoo in the shape of an eagle on the biceps. The mummy was Mike!

"This way, oinker."

I was guided through the open door in back of the table and down the hallway I had seen toward a heavy wood door that was bolted and padlocked. My captor undid the locks and opened the door outward. Inside was a small, empty room, actually more like a closet, formed by two concrete walls, a low ceiling with an overhead light, and another identical heavy wood door, bolted and padlocked. While my mind raced with thoughts of Mike, my captor unlocked the second door and moved back to open it. It revealed an empty alcove.

"In there boy."

I took a step forward to go inside, but there was nowhere to go, because the space was so limited.

"All the way in, oinker."

I moved inward as he pushed me further inside, until my bound forearms touched the wall, and then the door closed quickly. I was in total darkness. My first reaction was to turn around to face the door. As I did so, my shoulders and elbows brushed against each of the four walls, and a feeling of confinement overwhelmed me. I lost my orientation, my heart pounded, and my legs started to shake. Next, I stood still and worked on relaxing and breathing slowly. It seemed important to identify the door, but I couldn't find it. I decided the only way I could tell whether I was facing it was to feel the walls with my face. I rubbed it against the wall in front of me, and then the one to my side. There was an odor of concrete and wallboard.

The shock of seeing Mike had preoccupied me so much that I had barely paid attention. Now I found myself in a small space little more than 2 or 2.5 feet square and 6 feet high. Obviously it was some kind of holding cell, I thought. It seemed completely isolated and dark. No light came in at all from the outer room, and it was totally quiet except for the noise I made moving around in the cell. It was so narrow that, at first, I thought standing was the only option.

As time passed, I tried to take my mind off my own predicament by considering Mike's situation. What was he doing here, mummified and catheterized? It didn't seem like Mike's kind of scene to me. His cockiness and independence seemed inconsistent with long-term bondage and confinement. Why would his Master (Tom) have sent him here? I couldn't believe Mike wanted it, and from the comments I heard, it sounded like he had been uncooperative. Mike just didn't seem naturally submissive to me. It was more like he enjoyed playing the role because it was an erotic element of a sexy lifestyle he wanted to be part of in some way. But, all of my impressions were based on that one 24-hour period we had been together. I guessed I really knew little about him.

An hour or more, maybe two hours passed, and I started to appreciate the effect of my confinement. I needed a break from standing. Tentatively, I bent my legs and lowered myself down. The solid walls so close together formed such a small floor area that there was barely enough room to kneel. Before the door had shut, I hadn't paid attention to what the floor was made of, but against my knees it was cold and felt clean and solid, like linoleum over concrete. After some period of kneeling, with some effort and contortions, I squeezed down further, into a squatting position. Then, working my booted feet forward and flattening my back against the wall, I managed to sit. Once I accomplished that, I wanted to rest but soon felt wedged-in and even more trapped. My anxiety level was building again.

When I tried to get up, it felt like I was stuck, and I panicked. In my irrational, frenzied state, I think I yelled for help. Pushing and scraping against the walls within the straitjacket, exerting my leg muscles, trying to twist my arms within their bindings, I struggled to rise upward. When I finally succeeded, it was a relief to stand. I was totally exhausted. The small space was suddenly hot and airless, and I was sweating profusely. I spread my legs as wide as the space allowed and leaned to one side with my head against the wall. More time passed, and I started to feel better.

Once I had recovered, I experimented a bit with the limited maneuvers the enclosure allowed. Aside from the fact that I was trapped in the cell, I found the straitjacket was a major source of my problems. Having my arms wrapped securely made stooping down, squeezing between the walls either onto my knees or butt, and then returning myself to a standing position into a difficult exercise, and a bit of a balancing act, except there was not enough room to fall if I lost my balance. I resolved to remain standing, but as more time passed, the inability to get into a relaxed position started to make me feel crazed. I alternated between standing and partially kneeling as best I could. The isolation and darkness were complete. I did my best to stay calm but hoped a change could come soon.

Leaning against one of the walls, I was startled by a noise and realized a small rectangular window, created by a panel in the door, had opened. Soon thereafter, relief flooded through me when the entire door opened. There was a rush of air. The light in the outer room was on overhead, and I squinted at the brightness. It was the younger, muscular keeper. He wore nothing but boots and a cock ring.

"Having fun in there, oinker?"

I looked at him and said nothing.

"I expect an answer, slave, and it better be enthusiastic. And while you're here, each sentence starts and ends with 'Sir'".

"Sir, yes, Sir, thank you, Sir."

"That's better." He led me forward out of the cell by pulling on a ring at the collar of the straitjacket, and pushed me down into a kneeling position until my nose touched his boots.

"Lick the right one, slave. Do a good job."

I worked my tongue with as much eagerness as I could find. He kept me at it for a while, and I really started to get into it. My cock made another uncomfortable attempt to expand within its small metal tube.

"Ok. Switch to the left now. Good boy. Let me see some sucking action over my toes."

After I washed his boots, he moved my head to his balls, and then his cock. I looked upward and realized that every part of his body was more than worthy of worship, and that he was used to it. An incredible wave of horniness hit me. I wanted to continue all night, do anything to please him, but he pulled my head back after a few minutes.

"Time for bed now, oinker. Let me hear you beg to be locked in the isolation cell for the night."

At that time, I was so horny and excited, I was more than willing to do anything for him.

"Sir, please lock me up for the night, Sir."

"Good. But first let's make things a little more interesting than they were. Don't want you to get bored while you're in there all night."

I moaned in pleasure unintentionally as he turned me in different directions and adjusted the multiple straps on the straitjacket. When he was finished making the jacket tighter, he guided me into the cell, so that I was facing him with the door open.

"Stay right there, boy."

He went through the outer door and returned quickly with lengths of black rope and a leather piece with straps hanging from it that he dropped on the floor. He kneeled down and tied my boots at the ankles with one rope. He tied a second just above my knees, and then used a third rope to cinch the first two.

"What do you, say, boy?"

"Sir, thanks for tying my legs, Sir."

"What else, oinker?"

"Sir, thanks for tightening the straitjacket, Sir."

He retrieved the leather item from the floor and then held it in my face. I thought it was a hood and gag. "Beg for it, boy."

"Sir, please gag and hood me, Sir."

"This is just a hood, boy. In the isolation cell, you don't need a gag. This cell is made of concrete block and the doors are solid oak, so it's soundproof. You can make all the noise you want, and no one will ever hear you. And, only someone with the keys to the padlocks could unlock the doors. Your Masters told us you like to have little tantrums, and you can do that in here all you want. No one will ever know. But, if you'd like, I'll go get a big gag to satisfy your greediness."

"Sir, that's not necessary, Sir."

"Are you sure, boy?"

"Sir, yes, I'm sure, Sir."

"That didn't sound very convincing."

I begged, "Sir, please hood me without a gag, Sir."

It was thick, padded, and had multiple straps that encircled my head and jaw. The mouth was solid, like a muzzle, but with many tiny holes for breathing. There were nose holes but no eyeholes.

After he was finished, he raised his voice to penetrate the hood. "Night, oinker. What do you say?"

I made a muffled reply. "Sir, thank you, Sir."

"You're welcome, boy. Have fun."

The door closed. His aura was still with me, and I was unbearably horny. The physical sensations were incredible: ropes tightly tied around my legs, the confining straitjacket and hood, the solid, immobile walls and cramped space. Moaning loudly, I turned and twisted to test the limits of my confinement and thought about the way he had made me beg for it. In a feverish state of bondage bliss, I pushed my pelvis forward to rub against the wall. Despite the chastity device, I was desperate to cum. I didn't care if my cock fell off trying to become erect, as long as I could cum. I ignored the pain to push and thrust forward repeatedly.

I'm not sure how long my frenzy continued, but ultimately I realized I couldn't cum. The butt plug dilating my sphincter combined with the pain and burning in my cock confused my nerve endings or over-stimulated them in such a way that I was unable to achieve a climax. I was breathless and perspiring heavily. I had to stop my agitation and come to my senses, I thought. For a while I stood quietly and thought about our encounter, and my horniness continued to carry me.

I don't know how long it took to happen, but at some point a claustrophobic fear invaded my thoughts. My muscular captor was long gone, and the meaning of what he had said began to pervade my mind: all night in this cell! Soon, the uncomfortable misery of my plight set in. Even thoughts of Mike vanished as the crazed feeling I experienced earlier returned, while I tried to maneuver into different positions. I managed to fold myself up, sink down (all the while increasing the pressure of the ropes around my legs), and cram into the floor area, but soon the stuck and panicky feeling would take over. Moving around was even more difficult than before.

The ropes definitely complicated my life, and the hood muddled my spatial orientation even more. Heart pounding, adrenaline flowing, sweating, and breathing noisily through the hood, each time I clumsily extracted myself from the crammed sitting or squatting position, I would be determined to remain standing. My feet were held closely together by the ropes around my ankles and knees, so when I was standing I couldn't separate my legs for comfort, balance, or to shift around. I leaned forward, back, or at one side, against the cell walls, but then eventually I'd give in to my tiredness and slowly descend again. The tightness of the straitjacket seemed more appreciable with each passing moment, and still having my gloves on within it reduced the space further. I reached a point when I gave up on behaving. I didn't care any more. I screamed through the hood and knocked my shoulder against what I hoped was the door, but no one came.

As more time passed with no release, I tried to visualize my situation to make myself horny again. I pictured it all in my mind: hood, straitjacket, chastity belt, butt plug, boots roped together, trapped in a tiny, uncomfortable tomb-like concrete cell, behind two solid oak doors that were bolted and padlocked. My cock would expand painfully, imprisoned in its small metal tube, and I would clench my sphincter around the butt plug. I had brought this on myself, and this is what I deserved. My cock agreed with me. I worked hard to maintain that horny state of mind.

At other times, a state of quiet acceptance took over, and my mind went blank. Sometimes I struggled because I desperately wanted to go home, and, next, I would attempt to settle myself with the thought that release was not an option. More time passed, and the cycle repeated itself. Frantic attempts to change position, panic at getting stuck, yelling through the hood, pushing against the walls, horniness, discomfort. Then tiredness, stillness, quiet. No response to my begging. The cell was a real mind fuck.

After an eternity, I was jammed into a fetal position in a catatonic state, facing the back wall (though I did not know it) when I discovered the door had opened. Within minutes, I was out of the cell, with my legs untied and my head free, on my knees, still in the straitjacket, and, flooded with relief, enthusiastically sucking the hairy one's cock. After he was satisfied, he released me from the straitjacket, unlocked the rear shield of my chastity belt, and told me to proceed to the bathroom.

"You're allowed a half hour for hygiene, oinker. Use anything you need in the bathroom; it's stocked with new toothbrushes, enemas, and such. You can remove your gloves and boots once you're in the bathroom. Flush yourself well and then get your plug back in. Don't waste any time. When you're finished, remember to lace your boots up tightly and put your gloves back on."

I am a slave if I'm accepting this, I thought. How would my keepers react if I asked to go home now? A little shaky, I walked through the room I had seen the night before. It was clean, neat, and empty, except for an abundance of bondage equipment: two cages; a sling; some kind of a padded horse with a stock attached; shelves and bookcases with supplies; metal and leather restraints hanging from the walls on hooks; a narrow, cot-like table I hadn't noticed before; and the other, larger table, without the mummy on it this time.

In the outer area, ahead before I turned toward the bathroom, I noticed a paired set of doors, certainly an entrance to another room. I wondered if Mike was in there, or if he was gone, or if I had been mistaken about the identity of the mummy. In a way, I was too exhausted to care. As I went into the bathroom, my keeper passed by and commented, "Get busy, unless you want to forfeit your hygiene time." He ascended a staircase to the left of the double doors. I wondered what was up the stairs, and whether his partner ("Mr. Muscle" I started calling him to myself) was up there. What time was it, anyway I thought?

I completed my personal hygiene tasks quickly, as instructed, reluctantly reinserted the plug, and stood outside the bathroom in my boots and gloves. Minutes passed, and no one came. I considered the alternatives. If I could find my pants and jacket, maybe I could get dressed and just walk out of the place. But then what? I had no idea where I was. I had satisfied my thirst a bit by drinking water from the bathroom faucet, but I was hungry. If I did leave, I had no money for food or travel, no ID, nothing to help me get home. I'd have to find a pay phone to call someone for help, but how would I ever explain where I was? Maybe I could convince these guys to take me home, I thought.

If they were willing, however, that destroyed any realism they and my Masters had worked to achieve. Was it real, or was the whole situation bogus? Now that I was free for the moment and somewhat recovered, thinking about the challenge of the hellish night in the cell made my dick swell. That had certainly been real. I decided my best course of action was to stay put and wait. As the minutes passed uninterrupted, however, my curiosity got the better of me, and I walked to the paired doors and opened them.

There was another, smaller room. What I saw first was some kind of bondage bed, with leather restraints scattered across it. Next, my eyes traveled to a large rectangular metal frame, on a platform, to which it was attached by metal supports, arms that looked like they allowed the frame to pivot and change position. Short, multiple straps extended web-like from the frame inward toward its center, where a heavily hooded and restrained figure was suspended in a leather sleepsack. I didn't even think it was real at first, until I heard the sound of leather creaking and a muffled groan. I closed the doors quickly and returned to the bathroom.

Nearly immediately, my keeper returned ("Mr. Tattoo" again, as I started to think of him, as opposed to Mr. Muscle). The pit of my stomach felt like it was in my throat, and my pulse was racing. My legs felt wobbly. He locked the rear shield of the chastity belt back in place. I was almost totally preoccupied with thoughts of Mike as robot-like I followed the limited instructions I was given over the next few minutes. In the main room, Mr. Tattoo applied the rigid metal device used during my transport the night before. This time I had a chance to study it. It looked like a medieval punishment device, except it was obviously new, with its modern construction, curved edges, and shiny, lightweight metal. It restrained my wrists together closely, attached to my neck about 18 inches below. Mr. Tattoo adjusted the holes at the neck and wrists, bolted it closed, and then used a padlock through a hole in the bolt.

As before, I felt like I was in a praying position. Next came rigid ankle irons around my boots that held my feet about 10 inches apart. Unlike his partner (Mr. Muscle), Mr. Tattoo said little to me. He finished with the rigid restraints without comment, and then he guided me down and locked me in a comfortable, padded, square cage, about 3-4 feet long on each dimension, with wide bars. He said I should "lick my bowl clean," and then left. I positioned myself awkwardly with my head over a large dog bowl, from which I slurped some sort of tasteless but edible mush diluted with water. At least it satisfied my hunger. After I finished, I sat up expectantly for some period of time. Perhaps about an hour passed before I lay on my side. Then I twisted at the waist to flatten my back against the cage floor, drew my legs up and bent them to rest the ankle restraint on the floor, and fell into a deep sleep.

An unknown time later, aware of the iron restraints and of conversation, I woke slowly. I kept my eyes closed. A knot formed in my stomach. Both of my jailers were present in the room, along with a third person. They were talking as though I was not there.

Mr. Tattoo: "It's basically a money arrangement. The boy's doing a term of service for Ed, I think for a year or more, because Ed assumed the financial debt that the boy accumulated and that Tom didn't want to deal with."

A voice I didn't recognize asked, "What does that mean in terms of their roles?"

Mr. Tattoo: "Ed basically bought him as a 24/7 boy, because he thought the boy was very hot and wanted to continue as a slave. Apparently he slaved pretty well for Tom except he screwed up financially."

"Tell him about this uncooperative, shit attitude we're getting from him." That came from Mr. Muscle.

Mr. Tattoo: "As we know, our friend Ed can be a pretty sadistic Top when it comes to satisfying his fetishes. I'd guess this kid just needs some adjustment training. That's probably one reason why Ed wanted him here for a while."

Mr. Muscle commented: "I think he's just not into the kind of training Ed wants us to give him."

Mr. Tattoo: "The way Ed started off it freaked him a bit. Ed tied and mummified him. Then we showed up, strapped him to the board, and carried him away. He didn't know he was going anywhere. That's how Ed wanted it."

There was a laugh from Mr. Muscle. "You have to admire Ed's twisted nature."

The stranger: "What's his name?"

"We decided his slave name here is 'shithead.' His real name is Mike."

The stranger: "How long will shithead be here?"

Mr. Tattoo: "Ed hasn't decided."

The stranger: "When are you doing the total body cast?"

Mr. Tattoo: "We have the guy who did that workshop on plaster casting coming over later today. We wanted you around too, for medical expertise. Make sure he's okay, even though this guy's careful and very experienced. We're going to sedate shithead lightly first, tell him it's going to be for just a few hours."

The stranger: "Why not just not do it?"

Mr. Tattoo: "We promised Ed, and he's done lots for us, like helping us get this place. Ed's planning to come later. He's really looking forward to this."

The stranger: "How long you going to keep him in it?"

Mr. Tattoo: "Ed wants 24 hours at least, but we need your advice on that. As long as you think it's safe, I guess. We've done casting twice before on other slaves, but not from head to toe, and not for more than a half day. And, they were very willing victims."

The stranger: "My dick is starting to surge. It could actually be a pretty hot scene. The duration partly depends on how much prep we do."

Mr. Muscle: "Ed made sure he's totally shaved, head to toe. Ed wants him in a rubber body suit first, but we told him no – too hot."

The stranger: "If he were to be in it for more than 24 hours, I was thinking along the lines of a nasogastric tube through his nose to his stomach to control food and fluid intake, a urinary catheter, a hole in the cast at his ass for shitting, his other bodily needs. I'd have to go to the supply store near the hospital to get some equipment first."

Mr. Tattoo: "What else?"

The stranger: "Have to make sure he's breathing ok and can't let him overheat. When he's alone, he should be positioned face down, in case he spits up. I wouldn't gag him unless someone is there with him. Plaster of Paris is heavy, so moving him around will not be that easy."

Mr. Tattoo: "How long can he stay casted? Ed will ask what you think."

The stranger: "If we can keep him calm and cool, he could stay casted for several days, but I wouldn't be able to be here beyond the weekend. If he's deprived of all his senses for long enough, he could have some kind of psychological reaction. He's a healthy young guy, so he'll probably be fine, but we still need to be careful. Skin isn't meant to be compressed for such long periods of time. If the Master caster does a good job, that shouldn't be a problem, but you'd need to be able to tell whether the boy is actually experiencing pain or just faking it to get out. It could be a lot of work."

Mr. Tattoo: "That's ok, it's for Ed. We only have one other trainee right now, and he'll be low maintenance. Speaking of which, he's had plenty of time to digest his gruel and has been asleep quite a while…"

All three of them came over to my cage and looked down at me.

I opened my eyes and said, "Sir, yes Sir."

Mr. Tattoo: "Keep your mouth shut, boy."

"So, this is Jim and Bob's boy." The stranger was tall and slim, had a flat top haircut, salt and pepper color with a moustache, and was maybe 50 years old. No one I had ever seen before. He was dressed in faded jeans, military boots, and a white T-shirt with a fist on it.

Mr. Tattoo: "His slave name is 'oinker.'"

They got me out of the cage. My arms were still held to my chest in the bolted, locked restraint, and my ankles still fastened together. I did a slight duck walk shuffle as Mr. Tattoo positioned me.

The stranger: "Hot. Great ass. What are your plans for him today?"

Mr. Tattoo: "Nothing definite. Maybe more time in the isolation cell. Are you leaving and coming back later? What's your schedule?"

The stranger smacked my butt and grinned. "I think I'd like to stay for awhile. Experiment a bit."

Mr. Muscle: "I'm in the mood for that too. Let's get him ready."

Mr. Tattoo removed the rear shield from my chastity belt, and their visitor asked for a plastic glove and lubricant, which Mr. Muscle went and got, along with a leather piece I couldn't distinguish. The visitor then proceeded to remove my butt plug. My asshole was sore from wearing the plug for so long, and I let out a yelp.

"He should have a bigger plug up there!"

Mr. Muscle: "Rick, you always say that." He laughed and continued, "One track mind."

"Rick" then inserted his gloved fingers, one by one, into my anus, while I tried not to react. Mr. Muscle unfolded the leather and untangled straps hanging from it. It was a head harness, with a muzzle and a gag that snapped in place.

Mr. Muscle: "There boy, now you're gagged, like you wanted last night. What do you say?"

"Thir, thnku, thir."

Next, Mr. Tattoo removed the iron restraints, and Rick kept two or three fingers in me, pushing me forward, as they moved me to a piece of equipment I had noticed earlier. Rick laid me on my stomach, across a leather-padded, wood bench, about waist-high, and fit my neck and wrists into an attached wooden stock at the head of the bench, which he closed and locked. The slots were lined with soft padding, either leather or vinyl. Mr. Tattoo fiddled with a complicated set of iron manacles linked with chain. He fit them over my wrists and around my neck, effectively preventing me from squeezing through the openings in the stock if I had been able. Rick was between my spread legs, working my hole with his fingers, while Mr. Muscle bent my knees and fastened each ankle (within my boots) to the sides of the bench. Then I felt someone pull down on a chain attached to the neck iron, and irons being fitted around my boots. I couldn't turn my head to see, but apparently the manacles and chains connected my neck, wrists, and ankles all together.

Mr. Tattoo: "I'm going to check on shithead and then I'll be upstairs."

Mr. Muscle stood in front of me. He unsnapped and removed the gag and replaced it with his flaccid cock.

"Make me hard, oinker."

Limited by the muzzle and its small mouth hole, I licked and sucked in an effort to obey. Behind me, there were three or four fingers inside me.

Rick: "If he were my boy, he wouldn't be this tight."

Mr. Muscle: "I don't think Bob and Jim are into fisting."

Rick: "Obviously. Any new plugs or dildos we can use?"

Mr. Muscle: "There's a big dildo still in the box, on the shelf over there. I'm not sure about a plug. Take a look."

Mr. Muscle pulled his cock out of my mouth, reinserted the gag, and pushed on the snaps. He walked behind me. "I want to try it first, before you stretch it all out of shape. Let me get a condom."

Mr. Muscle entered my dilated hole without warning and began to ram me, like he was poking a piece of meat. He finished quickly, in just a few strokes, with no warning, and then pulled away. Next, I felt something large, cold and lubricated rubbing against me and seeking entrance. In my periphery, I saw Mr. Muscle had moved to the large table, where he was sitting and watching. His jeans were open at the fly, and his cock was still erect and encased in a condom.

The dildo felt overwhelmingly large, and I started to panic. I pleaded through the gag for it to stop and wiggled my ass from side to side.

"Calm down, boy. I'm not going to hurt you. It'll go in eventually. We can take our time. Just relax now. Concentrate on opening up."

Mr. Muscle: "Maybe we should use the sling instead."

Rick: "I think this will work."

And, eventually, it did. I couldn't see its size, but it felt bigger than anything I had ever taken. Rick started fucking me with it gently once I was able to accommodate it. I began moaning loudly. The pleasure/pain sensation took control of my brain and reflexes. In spite of the discomfort it caused, my cock became engorged with blood within the metal tube. Spasms took over my body, and my ass and cock seemed like one fiery unit. Convulsively, I pushed against the dildo as Rick encouraged me to let it in further. In spite of the chastity belt, my previous inability to cum was overpowered by a strong, burning feeling of impending ejaculation. I squirmed and pushed my ass further upward, to get as much of the dildo as possible, and the ejaculation took hold and erupted. I screamed through the gag over and over as the repeated waves of painful spasms took over all my senses. When they subsided, I heard laughter and became aware once again of the conversation. Thankfully, the dildo had been removed.

Mr. Muscle: "He's shot out the tube all over the place. Are you sure it was cum?"

Rick: "It's definitely cum."

Mr. Muscle: "I've never thought much of chastity devices anyway, and you just proved my point."

Rick: "That wasn't my plan, but I wouldn't punish him for it. He's a slave who obviously needs much more ass work than he's been getting."

Mr. Muscle: "Whatever. I'm getting hungry. Let's go upstairs. Or do you need to cum too?"

Rick: "No, not now. Maybe later. Get me a towel and some duct tape."

Rick used the towel to wipe my cum, apparently from any surface it had coated. I felt him pay particular attention to the front shield of the chastity belt (reaching under me) and my ass. Then he draped the towel over my face. I heard a tearing sound and felt him secure the towel with tape around my head. Next, ignoring my muffled protests, he gently pushed the dildo back in as far as it would go. I felt his hands reaching under me to apply tape.

"Grind your crotch into the bench, boy, and squeeze on the dildo, like you're trying to push it out. Perfect. Stay still, now."

I followed his instructions as he exerted more pressure on the dildo. I felt tape being pulled tight over the crack of my butt, up over the protruding part of the dildo, and to the level of my waist. Then, more tearing of tape from the roll, as layers were applied over the back of my waist and around the bench.

Rick's parting words: "You have permission to push it out boy, if you can. We'll be back later."

Soon afterward, they were gone. The pungent odor of my own cum filled my nostrils. I wiggled on the bench and tried to squeeze the huge dildo to dislodge it, but my efforts had a fucking-like effect. The whole area was so sensitive that I decided to lie still to minimize the stimulation. A sobering, post-orgasm state of mind came over me. My thoughts returned to Mike. Was he still suspended in the sleepsack in the other room? How much financial trouble had he been in? What kind of Master was the "Ed" guy? I contemplated Mike's imminent fate – to be encased in a plaster of Paris cast. Even I, though an extreme bondage lover, was daunted by that prospect.

Unthinkingly, I tried to extend one of my legs, and the monster dildo interrupted my thoughts. One tiny movement from me and the shifting feeling of its wide girth caused incredible stimulation. Unexpectedly, I was horny again. The friction of the dildo stretching my hole and rubbing my prostate were sending me into orgasm zone. Thoughts of Mike faded. I ignored the pain in my cock as I struggled against the stock and iron restraints, sucked on the gag, sniffed the dried cum in the towel, and rocked my pelvis in a frenzy of self-fucking.

Comments

[Mark]

Fantastic continuation, never seen part 6 if there is one?